


A Case of Two Buck Chuck

by SuiteJayne



Series: John and Sherlock Visit Iconic Retail Establishments [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (but not really), Alan Rickman appreciation, BAMF John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas, Die Hard References, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Movie: Die Hard, POV John Watson, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Saturday Night Live References, casefic, silliness, speculoos cookie butter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuiteJayne/pseuds/SuiteJayne
Summary: Sherlock and John are on holiday in New York City when they find themselves trapped in a hostage situation in Trader Joe’s.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: John and Sherlock Visit Iconic Retail Establishments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912993
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	A Case of Two Buck Chuck

**Author's Note:**

> With sincere apologies to _Die Hard_ and a tip of the hat to “Coffee Talk with Linda Richman.” (But you don’t have to have seen those to enjoy this.)

“I miss you so much, my darling! I wish I could pick you up and give you a giant squeeze. Oh, what do you have there? Is that what I think it is?”

“Sherlock,” said John tiredly.

“It _is_! It’s Miss Bunny with her big, floppy ears!”

“Can we just--” John interjected.

“Hello, Miss Bun! Won’t you please give Rosie a big hug for me since I’m so far away over the ocean?”

John tugged impatiently on Sherlock’s sleeve. 

“Daddy wants to talk to you!”

John shook his head and waved his arms like he was directing traffic. He hadn’t flown to New York only to spend their entire holiday on FaceTime with Rosie. He jerked his head in the direction of the revolving doors leading from the fancy hotel lobby to the crowded city streets.

Sherlock took the hint.

“I have to go now, my little Rosebud. Are you being very, very good for Auntie Molly? Daddy and I will bring you home something special if you are!”

After a few more gooey endearments, Sherlock closed the app and returned his phone to his pocket.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

“Finally! That’s the second time you’ve FaceTimed with Rosie today! What news can a three-year-old possibly have stored up between breakfast and lunch?”

“John.” Sherlock turned his piercing gaze on John and used his deepest, most reproachful voice. “She’s changing so fast. I can barely keep up with cataloguing her neologisms and enthusiasms. When we left London four days ago she was obsessed with umbrellas. Now umbrellas are old hat and she’s besotted with spatulas! Spatulas, John!” 

He chuckled. 

“How can you bear the thought that you might miss any of it?”

John had to smile. He’d spent years badgering Sherlock about his apparent lack of human emotion. It was hardly fair now to criticize him for an excess of it.

“Alright, you big softie. Come on,” John said, taking Sherlock’s arm and steering him toward the revolving doors. “Let’s take a walk and get something to eat.”

The two maneuvered through the crush of pedestrians, many burdened with packages and festive red-and-green shopping bags. As an early Christmas gift, Molly had insisted that John and Sherlock leave Rosie with her and spend a week away, just the two of them. They’d rushed to buy plane tickets, renew passports, and book a hotel. Neither of them knew New York well, but they’d ended up with a plum spot close to Central Park.

“Oh look, a Trader Joe’s,” said John, spotting a distinctive red-and-white sign across the street and jaywalking fearlessly toward it like a real Manhattanite. “Let’s stop in here for a baguette and some camembert. We can take a picnic to the park.”

“John, it’s December.”

“It’s unseasonably mild,” John insisted, taking Sherlock’s hand and leading him through the double doors. “Besides, I want to pick up some Speculoos Cookie Butter. I had some when I was in the States for that conference a year ago, remember? This time I’ll get a couple of extra jars to take home so I don’t eat it all before we board the plane.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but followed John with a tolerant smile.

John hummed along with a pleasant mix of British Invasion tunes piped into the shop as he navigated its compact layout. He bypassed mounds of navel oranges, a dizzying array of trail mix, and a cluster of New Yorkers enjoying samples of wine from thimble-sized cups. He found the baked goods section easily enough, seized a baguette, and dithered over a Chocolate Brooklyn Babka.

“These are fantastic. And they’re only--” John did a rapid mental calculation. “About £2!”

“John, there is a local patisserie not half a mile from here with a 5-star rating on TripAdvisor,” Sherlock admonished him. “Do not be hoodwinked by the specious use of the word ‘Brooklyn.’ These are mass-produced baked goods. We don’t need to buy this when this city is stuffed to the gills with artisanal pastries!”

“Sherlock, you might feel differently if you’d ever tasted the Chocolate Brooklyn Babka. Look, let’s just put it in the basket and we can decide later.”

“Fine.” 

Having secured a nice, stinky round of cheese and some apples, John successfully located the Speculoos Cookie Butter.

“I don’t even know what this is,” said Sherlock skeptically, holding a jar of the stuff. “It is neither cookie, nor butter. Explain.”

“It’s like a paste made from cookies. A delicious, completely non-nutritive spread,” John said, opening the jar and scooping a little onto his finger. “Taste.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and bent his head to take the tip of John’s finger into his mouth. He licked and sucked it, his eyes locked on John’s. John felt a flush rise to his cheeks at the sensation and could not help licking his lips.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed approvingly. “It’s very nice. What do you propose putting it on?”

John stepped very close to Sherlock and tilted his head up to speak into his ear. 

“You, of course,” he said in an almost-whisper. His breath moved Sherlock’s hair where it curled over his ear. “When we get back to the hotel room I’m going to strip you naked and use this stuff to paint a Christmas tree on your chest. Then I’m going to use my tongue to decorate it.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Sherlock breathed, his mouth nuzzling John’s ear in turn. “But it sounds wonderfully dirty. I’m in. Let’s get three jars.” 

John stepped back slightly with a grin. 

“Right then,” he said. “I’ll just get something to drink and then we can have our picnic.” 

He looked up and down the aisle but wasn’t sure in which direction the beverages lay. 

“Let’s ask that cute stock boy,” Sherlock suggested, seeing John’s indecision and nudging him with an elbow.

John turned to see a store employee unpacking boxes of Roasted Seaweed Snacks. Sandy hair, expressive face, not tall, quite fit. The young man bore a remarkable resemblance to none other than...himself. 

John met Sherlock’s playful look and his lips quirked in a smile. He tapped the employee on his Hawaiian-shirted shoulder.

“Can I help you find something?”

“Yes--” John looked at his nametag. “--Karl. We’re looking for--”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Suddenly, gunfire broke out near the front of the shop, followed by screaming and a voice shouting over the din.

“Hands in the air! All of you! Do what I say and no one gets hurt!”

“Oh my God,” John said, reaching instinctively to the back of his waistband. But of course, his gun was back in London. Sherlock was already hurrying the Trader Joe’s employee--Karl--away from the gunfire. John pocketed a box cutter that had been lying atop the boxes of seaweed and followed. They could hear more shouting from the front. 

“Tony, secure the main entrance!”

More shots rang out. 

“You! Get down on the ground and don’t move!”

“Where’s the emergency exit?” John asked Karl as the three men rushed toward the back of the shop into the wall of frigid air emanating from the dairy aisle. 

“This way,” said Karl, pushing John ahead of him. John crouched down as much as possible and ran past the free sample station, its taquitos and orange-peach-mango juice abandoned as terrified shoppers and employees fled. 

Then Sherlock’s voice rang out. 

“John, run!” 

John wheeled around to see Sherlock with his hands in the air and Karl sticking a gun in his ribs.

“I wouldn’t do that, John,” said Karl with a menacing smile. “You two better join the rest up by the cash registers. Now.”

John felt a red mist descending over him. He clenched his jaw. That short bastard was threatening Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. This was _not_ how this holiday was going to go. Karl prodded Sherlock with the gun, pushing him towards John to try and herd them to the front of the shop, but John had other ideas. He pushed over a tower of giant tins featuring four exotic flavors of popcorn, pausing briefly to wonder at American snacking habits-- _dill pickle popcorn? Really?_ \--and sprinted away. He took cover behind bins of onions and avocados, then spotted a sign that said Employees Only.

Meanwhile, Karl hustled Sherlock towards the front of the shop, swearing under his breath and poking him in the back with his pistol.

“I got one more for you here, Hans, but his boyfriend’s still on the loose somewhere,” said Karl. 

“You idiot! How could you let him get away?” Hans snarled. He was a tall blond with keen eyes, an aquiline nose, and an imperious expression whose effect was only slightly dimmed by his gaudy Hawaiian shirt. He shook his head in disgust and pointed a gun at Sherlock. “You, get over here with the rest. Tony, don’t let this one out of your sight. Karl, for God’s sake, find the boyfriend. And when you do, do whatever it takes to neutralize the threat.”

John had found the manager’s office and watched the CCTV feed as Sherlock joined the rest of the hostages. Karl was obviously being berated by his boss, judging by the taller man’s sharp gestures and Karl’s hangdog posture. Then a third person, a young woman, trained her gun on the hostages while Karl and his boss grabbed their employee walkie talkies. Karl stalked off camera, and John heard a burst of static from behind him. Another walkie talkie lay on the manager’s desk. 

“Karl, can you hear me?”

The voice was a low, leonine purr that gave Sherlock’s a run for its money.

“Yeah, I can, Hans.”

It was time to hunt or be hunted. John clipped the radio to his belt and was about to open the door to the manager’s office when he heard a deafening crash. John whirled around to check the CCTV, but there was no sign of anything that could have made that sound. Karl was now prowling down the freezer aisle while Hans talked on a cell phone and the woman guarded the hostages.

John cautiously exited the manager’s office and rounded a corner with his box cutter drawn and at the ready. Suddenly, he found himself slipping on a huge puddle of red liquid, flailing his arms and grabbing at a shelf of craft beers for support. Was that blood? As John regained his balance and looked more closely, he understood. It wasn’t blood--it was wine. He gaped at a sea of the stuff that lay in his path, scattered with evil-looking shards of green glass. Karl had pushed over a tower of cases of Charles Shaw cabernet sauvignon to discourage John from heading toward the back of the shop. Karl hoped to steer him toward the front where his partners in crime were waiting. Well, it was a waste of a perfectly drinkable, affordable vintage, because John wasn’t about to be deterred. He took a deep breath and ran over the broken glass towards where he judged Karl to be, smug in the knowledge that (over Sherlock’s objections) he had worn a comfortable, if unfashionable, pair of athletic shoes with thick spongy soles.

The problem was, he couldn’t help but send glass shards skittering in all directions as he ran, and the sound alerted the criminals. John heard their chatter over the walkie talkie.

“He’s on the move! Find him, Karl!”

“I’m right there, I should be able to see him! But he’s nowhere!”

John peered out from among the foliage of a lush display of poinsettias. He could just discern Karl sheltering behind a seasonal endcap of chocolate truffles and pine-scented candles. John crept forward, moved up swiftly behind Karl, wrapped his hand around his mouth and nose, and brought the point of the box cutter up to his carotid artery, digging it in just enough to draw a drop of blood. 

“Drop the gun,” he growled in Karl’s ear. When Karl complied, John picked up the weapon and forced him at gunpoint into the lavatory, where he stuffed paper towels into Karl’s mouth and stuck duct tape over it (kept handy in his knapsack for just such an occasion). 

“Right, now take off your shirt,” said John. Karl hesitated, confused.

“NOW!” He jabbed at Karl with the gun. 

As John bound Karl’s wrists and ankles with duct tape and left him hog-tied on the linoleum floor, the two-way radio crackled to life again.

“Where the hell are you, Karl? We’re getting out of here NOW.”

“Don’t count on it,” John said pleasantly into the walkie talkie. 

A few seconds passed in silence as Hans regained his composure.

“Don’t try to be a hero, my friend,” he said in a mild tone undergirded with malice. “You’ll only get yourself killed. Besides, shouldn’t you leave being a cowboy to us Americans?”

“Yippee-ki-yay, you bloody wanker,” John muttered in reply, setting down the walkie talkie and stripping off his cable-knit jumper.

Back at the front of the shop, Hans sighed. He turned to Sherlock and shook his head.

“These macho guys. Think they’re in a movie or something.”

He raised his gun to Sherlock’s chest and his walkie-talkie to his mouth.

“I’m going to shoot the hostages one by one, starting with your boyfriend, if you don’t give yourself up. You have sixty seconds.”

Gasps and strangled screams arose from the assembly of terrified shoppers behind Sherlock. Then John’s voice came over the radio.

“I love this shop, you know,” he said calmly. “Come here whenever I’m in the States. The Key Lime Tea Cookies. The Triple Ginger Thins. The Vatican Cameos.”

Hans raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who had tensed slightly at John’s words.

“Pretty cool customer, talking about sweets at a time like this,” Hans said. “I get what you see in him. Too bad this is the end of the road for the two of you.”

Hans raised the radio again.

“Thirty seconds, lover boy.”

Then a short sandy-haired man in a Hawaiian shirt appeared at Hans’ side.

“Karl, where the hell have you been?” Hans groused. He turned, only to find himself staring down the barrel of the gun John had confiscated from his associate. Simultaneously, he heard a sharp cry as Sherlock leaped into action, squirting Grapefruit and Lemon Hand Sanitizer Spray into Tony’s eyes and disarming her easily.

“Well, I’m glad that’s over with,” John said jovially as he grabbed Hans’ firearm, forced him to the ground, and bound his wrists with duct tape. “After all that talk of biscuits, I’m starving!”

Sherlock aimed Tony’s gun at her where she’d sunk to the floor, her eyes watering uncontrollably.

“John, you were absolutely right about Trader Joe’s,” he said approvingly. “This was great fun. Let’s come back tomorrow!”

John came over to Sherlock, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him.

“Knew you’d like it. Yeah, let’s come back tomorrow. We’ll get Molly a couple of Pound Plus Milk Chocolate bars.”

“Are you quite alright?” Sherlock asked, kissing John back. “There was a big crash--”

“No harm done,” John replied. “Except to my shoes. Unfortunately, the soles are completely knackered after running over broken glass.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mouth formed a perfect O of pleased surprise.

“But John, that’s wonderful!”

“Er, how so?”

“Shoe shopping, John! In New York City!”

\--

“I still think I could have pulled off the plaid,” John said, setting his new Fluevog boots aside as he climbed into the hotel room bed. Sherlock had loomed over him with silent, sour disapproval as John tried on the [yellow plaid](https://www.fluevog.com/shop/6170-bbc-men-s-yellow-plaid?item=14&of=108&gender=men&size=) until he had given up and chosen the classic black instead.

“Mmmm...no. You couldn’t.”

“What are you doing? Come to bed.”

“Just sending a quick WhatsApp to Rosie.”

“What? It’s the middle of the night in London. Besides, she can’t read.”

“It’s a photograph, John, of these Trader Joe’s PB&J Bars that I’m bringing her.”

“What is it with Americans and their fascination with peanut butter?”

“What is it with you and your fascination with cookie butter?”

“Why don’t you come over here and I’ll show you?”


End file.
